Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) (3 page)

“I’ll
leave a few extra euros for him along with the drink money. Does that make you
feel better?”

“Okay,
you got me,” I answered, thrusting Balzac into the pocket of my corduroys.

“That
reminds me,” Janie looked around. “Is there an envelope or anything back here?
We should keep track of how much we spend. You know, put money in as we go.”

“Well,
how much longer are we going to stay? I figured we’d head out to dinner
shortly.”

“Yeah
I know. But, I could handle one more so I think we should keep track. You know,
not betray Paul’s trust.”

“Right,”
I agreed.

Finding
an envelope with the words “theatre tickets” scribbled on it stashed behind the
register, I scratched out the existing label and replaced it with our room
number. We stuffed a few euros inside.

“There.
I feel better about taking Balzac now,” I said.

“He’ll
look good on our bookshelves at home.”

Suddenly,
the front door to the street rattled. Someone was trying to open it from the
outside. We saw the shadow of a large dark figure peering into our date. It
knocked on the window twice, but I waved them off.

“Sorry!
Closed!” I shouted. It had been an aggressive sort of shake. After the door rattled
again, the shadow moved away. “I guess the lights attract customers,” I mused.

“I
guess so,” Janie answered. “So what’s for dinner?”

“Oh,
I don’t know. We could try any number of the little places right out along
here.”

“Let’s
ask Paul. I didn’t love lunch yesterday,” Janie admitted.

“What
was wrong with lunch yesterday?”

“It
was gross.”

“I
loved it!” I said. Having never used a two-pronged fork before, I’d had orange
duck and a pilsner.

“Well,
we shouldn’t just randomly choose somewhere, is my point. We have no idea that
way if a place is actually good.”

“It’s
Paris. It’s all good,” I ventured.

“Please.
I mean, if we’re on vacation, it’s worth taking a little extra effort to find
something really special.”

“Okay,
that makes sense.”

“You
want it to be good, right?”

“Of
course.”

The
curtain ripped open, and a very large woman strode into the bar. The concierge
was right behind her, unable to stop her.

“The
front door is locked!” She sang in French as she passed a few tables and pulled
a chair away from the bar. “This alone is offense enough for me to …”

“I’m
sorry Madame von Hugelstein. We are closed this evening,” Paul began.

“Then
what is this?” she yelled indignantly. “Do you select your patrons now that you
are in charge? Victor would not have allowed this!”

Janie
and I glanced at each other. The woman looked ridiculous with her fur coat and plumed
purple hat. Her eyes pointed in different directions.

“I’m
sorry,
madame
, these are our guests. They are simply having a look
around before dinner,” Paul explained.

“They
are having a drink!” she exclaimed as she looked at me. “They are not looking
around! They are having a fête!”

“It’s
not a big fête,” I interjected. “We’re just enjoying this lovely room for a
minute. We’re actually about to leave.”

“AMERICANS?!”
she exploded after detecting multiple imperfections in my French. “Paul, you
foul animal. You are staining Victor’s memory!”

Paul
rolled his eyes.

Again,
I attempted to help. “May I make you a drink before dinner,
madame
?”

She
shot me a disparaging look. I glanced over at Paul, and he looked back,
defeated. He lazily thrust his hand in the air as if he barely had the strength
to lift it.

“One,”
he said.

“Whiskey,”
she hissed. “No Scottish swill.”

I
looked for a bottle with a label all in French. “Is this one okay?” I asked.

“Two
ice cubes, and a little vermouth.”

I
knew that she meant a Manhattan. I was not going to point out the name of the
drink. “I’m sorry,
madame
, we don’t have any more ice right now.”

“Well
that’s perfect. Of course you don’t.”

“Will
you take it neat?” I asked.

“I
think I’ll have to.”

Our
guest was a cartoon of herself. We were doing our best to hide our amusement,
but I noticed Janie snicker. I slid the concoction toward the woman, who took
an expressionless slip.

We
sat in silence for a few seconds. Janie and I exchanged a few silent words. I
thought that we could inhale the
Esprits de la Nuit
and move on. The
evening’s enjoyment beckoned and we could feel ourselves wading into bizarre
waters if we stayed longer.

Madame
von Hugelstein didn’t say a word. She stared off in another direction, perhaps
viewing a corner of her mind that was alien to us. Or, she was doing the same
thing we were: avoiding eye contact. I decided to accelerate the exchange.

“Well,
we were about to go get some dinner …”

“Victor
was a good man,” she spat.

I
sighed, seeing that she didn’t care about our dinner.

“I’m
sorry, who is Victor?” I asked. At the moment, I didn’t know whether I actually
cared or just wanted to finish the conversation quickly.

“The
bartender here, of course. You’re standing on hallowed ground!”

“Where
is he?” I asked. “We heard this place has been closed for a while. Did he
quit?”

“No,
no,” she sighed. “He has probably run off with some tramp.”

“Oh,
uh, okay. Were you two close?”

“Absolutely,
but it’s been a few weeks,” she said, still avoiding direct eye contact.

Janie
and I shared a look again.

“Are
you from the neighborhood?” I asked.

“Yes.
I live a few streets down. I am an opera singer.”

That
explained the downright melodic sounds of her outburst as she entered the room
minutes earlier.

“Oh
wow, that’s great,” I said trying to lighten the situation.

“Pete
plays a little piano,” Janie added.

“Well,
not really. I am a writer. Well, a journalist, really.”

The
woman didn’t react.

“Give
yourself some credit, baby,” Janie replied. “He’s better than he says he is. He
was in a rock band once.”

“Well,
we only played one gig. It was freshman year of college,” I answered. “Still,
it was a good place. For Indiana.”

“I
don’t know where that is,” the opera singer mumbled into her drink.

“It’s
in the middle of the U.S.,” I answered. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I caught
your name. It was Madame von …?”

“Hugelstein.
Trudel von Hugelstein,” she said with a nod but without a smile or kind tone.
She bit into the second half of her last name and emphasized the
shteen
.

“von
Hugelstein? Is that German?”

“I’m
French, asshole!” she struck.

“I
apologize.” There was a little more silence.

“Victor
knew that I was French the day that I met him.”

“I’m
sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said, back-peddling.

She
took a sip of her drink.

“We
were in love. Or, at least I thought we were in love.”

Here
we go, I thought. Janie shot me a look.

“She
was in love with the bartender here before he took off,” I whispered in English.

“No,
I think I got it. Bummer,” Janie commented, slowly stirring her
Esprit de la
Nuit
with a short straw.

Trudel
picked up her drink and stood. “It’s amazing how terrible this place has become
in just a few weeks. Look at all this dust.”

I
hadn’t noticed it. Everything looked clean to me.

“What
kind of bartender are you?” she added as she looked around. “Get a rag. Fix
this.” She motioned grandly toward the room.

Janie
looked like she enjoyed hearing this stranger boss me around. She raised her
eyebrows and smiled. I wet a bar towel and came out from behind the counter,
not willing to clean up the entire place. I wiped down one table and righted
the chair. The clock chimed behind me. I turned to see Trudel, who was now
engaged behind the bar.

“This
room isn’t the same without these tones,” Trudel said as she wound and adjusted
the hands on the clock. It didn’t occur to me that it was only stopped, not
broken.

Still
amused, Janie made a nod toward to the curtain. The motion was subtle, but I
agreed that it might be time to leave.

“Well,
we should probably be heading out,” I mused out loud for Madame von Hugelstein.

“Yep
probably,” Janie agreed. She finished her drink and casually slid the empty
glass away from her.

Trudel
ignored us. She moved down the bar a little and greeted the bust. She
straightened up and gently toasted the man with an air of sarcasm. I downed the
rest of my drink and took my place behind the bar again. Trudel grimaced at me
and returned to the customer side to sit down.

“Ready?”
Janie asked in an effort to get us out the door.

“Yes.
Madame von Hugelstein,” I started. “It was our pleasure …”

The
curtain again parted and a new face peered in. Janie and I looked over as my
voice trailed off. The man staring back was as silent and expressionless as we
were.

“Oh
God,” Trudel muttered quietly.

The
man entered the room. He walked cautiously, as his eyes darted around the bar with
a nervous energy. His face was all jowls. Mostly balding, the frumpy man had tried
to comb what little hair he had left to cover his entire scalp. The shine on
his loafers had long left the shoe, and his sweater vest bore the classic look
of a well-laundered article of clothing. I guessed that at one point it had looked
expensive.

His
round face was framed by large glasses and centered by a well-trimmed little
mustache. I looked at Janie, but she was sizing our new company up as well and
seemed to have forgotten about the plan to leave for a moment.

“
Bonsoir
,”
the man started. He was sweating a little.

“
Bonsoir
,”
I answered. “My wife and I are guests here. I actually don’t work here or
anything. We were just about to leave for dinner …”

“A
beer, please,” he said.

“Well,
uh, okay.”

“We
might as well, honey,” Janie assured me. “I’ll have one more, too.”

I
expected the concierge to step through the curtain at any time to stop the
party, but the cloth barrier remained motionless.

“1664
in a bottle, please,” he said.

“Of
course, sir.” I went to the fridge.

He
pulled up a stool between the ladies. “Hello, Trudel.”

“Hello,
Fleuse,” she answered, avoiding his gaze. She pronounced it “Flooze.”

“You
look nice tonight,” he offered.

Trudel
barely acknowledged this compliment. She raised her eyebrows and huffed softly.
She hadn’t smiled once until this moment, but she didn’t seem to be all that
happy.

Fleuse
waited for a response, but none came beyond that. He then looked in my
direction.

“And
who do we have here?” he asked as he looked me up and down.

“My
name is Peter. This is my wife, Janie. We are on vacation from Indiana, in the
United States.”

“I
know where Indiana is,” he sniffed.

“I’m
sorry,” I answered, thinking I’d offended the man. “Are you familiar with the
United States?”

“I
went to New York City one time. I hated it.” Again, he turned toward Trudel. He
paused, as if weighing his next question. “And how have you been?”

“It
hasn’t been that long, Fleuse,” she answered.

“Well,
it’s been a little while, at least.”

“Maybe.”

He
glanced nervously back at me to see how intently I was listening or watching.
“Maybe,” he continued, “we’d be able to have dinner tonight. You know, to catch
up a little.”

“Fleuse,”
Trudel said as she authoritatively set her drink on the bar. “I am in love with
Victor. It’s over.”

“Trudel,
I am sorry, but Victor is gone. He was my friend, too. I miss him.”

“Oh,
come off it. You’ve been waiting for him to disappear just so you could try to win
me back.”

“That’s
not true, Trudel.”

“Besides,
what will you do when he comes back?” she sang out near the top of her voice.
“Did you ever think of that? He’ll absolutely hate you for this!”

“Comes
back? You surely don’t believe …”